The Price of Love
by silver thorns
Summary: Not long after his defeat, Adhemar seeks out the blacksmith, Kate, to forge him a suit of armour, and in the following weeks an unlikely friendship born of trade and curiosity is formed. Pairings: Adhemar/Kate
1. Chapter One: The Commission

I fear I've come a little too late to the fandom... ah well, see how it goes. I realise that it's a pairing that has absolutely no basis in canon, and honestly I have no idea why I ship them at all, but this here be a Kate and Adhemar fic, Because I Can. What was originally a simple writing doodle has somehow transformed itself into a fifteen page epic, so I'll be posting the chapters up one a day to space them out a bit. Hope you like it, and any comments and constructive crits are welcomed =)

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><p><em>~<strong>The Commission<strong>~_

Not even pausing to wipe the sweat from her brow, Kate brought the hammer down with a vengeance, cursing her past self for being stupid enough to challenge Wat to a drinking game, only to immediately regret it as the obscenely loud '_clang!_' almost knocked her off her feet. Dear God above, her head was killing her. _Never again_, she thought savagely. _Let this be a lesson to all ye naughty sinners out there. Oh, if me mam could see me now..._ Shuddering at the mere thought of the lashing she'd receive from her mother, she threw herself into her work, trying to coax the tube into curving. With every strike she winced – it felt like someone was driving needles into her eyes – but she barrelled on through, hellbent on fulfilling her punishment.

It had been a wild night. They'd stayed in the tavern long past dawn, belting out songs at the top of their lungs – so drunk that she was sure at one point she'd been sweating alcohol – until at last the owner'd had enough and kicked them out onto the streets. From there they'd stumbled to and fro to their camp (mostly fro, come to think of it) until Wat had vomited all over Geoff, Roland had fallen unconscious, and Will and Jocelyn had disappeared off somewhere for the night. She'd managed to collapse in a relatively out-of-the-way heap, and hadn't woken up until long past midday. For some stupid reason she was beginning to regret now, she'd forced herself to start working on the backlog of commissions. Nothing but bloody horseshoes as far as the eye could see, thanks to her being a woman. Still, it put food on the table.

Kate heaved a thankful sigh as she thrust the red-hot iron into the barrel of water, closing her eyes as the steam eased her pounding headache. That had been the last of the shoes, thank God. She loved making them, she really did, but after sixteen without break it would've worn down the most enthusiastic of farriers. At least there would be something new to work on after this – Will's breastplate. It had turned blunt force with nary a scratch, yet buckled and tore like paper when pierced. She'd have to fix that... not that it had been a problem until that cheating scumbag had tipped his lance rather than fighting fair, the coward...

The steam started to clear, and through it she caught a glimpse of a dark figure approaching. She squinted, and then scowled. Think of the devil... She straightened up, chin thrust in the aforementioned scumbag's direction. "And what d'you want?" she challenged. "Was your defeat not enough, that you want me to start on you?"

Count Adhemar crossed his arms and leant against one of the beams, the very image of languid superiority. "A fine greeting. Do you treat all customers this way, farrier?"

She dropped the shoe on the table beside the others, frowning. "Customers?"

"Indeed. I wish to commission you."

"Commission me?" She knew she sounded like an idiot, but she couldn't help repeating him, so stunned was she by his... his... _audacity_!

He sneered at her. "Are you truly that stupid, to need to repeat my every word? Yes, I am willing to pay for your services. I want a full set of armour, comparable – though preferably better – to that peasant Tha-" He bit his tongue as she glared fiercely at him, tightening her grip on the tongs, and with some difficulty spat out, "to _Sir _William's."

She gaped at him, dropping the tongs in her surprise. It was... unexpected, to say the least. That he'd dare show his face around here at all reeked of arrogance – to then go and request her wares was just insulting. "Sure'n there's a score of smiths to pick from," she began, gesturing to the many smithies crammed together in the marketplace. "Why me, knowing how likely it is I'd ever consider helping a brute like you?"

The sneer dropped, and in a heartbeat he was looming over her, dark eyes glinting red from the forge light. He was well within propriety's standards – barely within arm's reach – yet the sheer force of his personality had her backed against the workbench, scrabbling for something to defend herself with. As her fingers closed round a hammer, he stepped forwards, leaning down till he was level with her. "Because I desire only the best," he murmured. Her treacherous heart fluttered, and she blamed it on the heat from the forge.

For what seemed an age, time stood still as she gazed up into the fine, handsome features of the man that had almost killed one of her closest friends. And then he picked up her tongs and handed them to her, walking around to the other side of the bench. It was all she could do to stay standing. Water, that was what she needed. Trying inconspicuously to use the table as a shield, she fumbled for the water skein and downed its contents in one. Bemused by her antics, he tossed a leather bag onto the workbench, and she couldn't help but notice the decidedly expensive way it clinked. "I have enough money to allay any moral objections you might have."

Kate hesitated. Money was scarce and work was work, but he was a sworn enemy of Will's – and most likely a murderer to boot. She should refuse outright. It was her duty as a friend, as a decent person. And yet...

"What will you do, now Thatcher has won his prize?" His voice was low and velvet soft, a devil's whisper. "Stay with him? You cannot live on fluctuating income, taking work only when your travelling permits. Considering the quality of your work, he would likely only need, what, one, two repairs a year? Horseshoes only make so much. There is enough here to set up your own shop wherever you wished – or to simply retire if you so desired. If the work is good enough, perhaps I'll even take you on as part of my retinue, outfitting my men. A steady supply of work to last you for years."

Though the last suggestion left a foul taste in her mouth, she couldn't help deny that he was right. She wasn't as young as Will – already halfway through her life if she was lucky, and she didn't want to spend the rest of it chasing tournaments and waiting in fear for the moment when her work wasn't good enough or the lances splintered the wrong way and poor Will died. She had to hand it to him – he might've been a conniving, cheating bastard, but Adhemar had a way with words.

With a sigh and the odd feeling that she was signing her soul away, she pocketed the bag. "Fine. I'll take some measurements, start on it in the morning. It'll take a few weeks solid work, so you'll need to pay extra to compensate for any work I'd have to turn down."

He grinned in an entirely unsettling way. "Excellent."


	2. Chapter Two: A Helping Hand

Wow, didn't actually think anyone would be around to read this XD Thank you!

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><p>~<strong><em>A Helping Hand<em>**~

Count Adhemar of Anjou limped through the sodden streets of London, cursing the rain, cursing his failure, and most of all cursing that thrice damned William bloody Thatcher. He, who had been loved, adored, nay, _worshipped _by his supporters; he, who had survived countless battles and never failed to lead his men to victory; he, who had never once lost a match since he'd first started jousting; _he_ had been bested by a common peasant! A thatcher's son! A fake, a fraud, that had somehow charmed the Prince himself! Snarling, he slammed his fist against a fence, only to let out a fresh stream of curses at the sliver of wood that then embedded itself into his palm.

Humiliating.

Easing himself down onto a step out of the rain, he yanked out the offending splinter and glared at nothing in particular. He forced himself to breathe the frozen air deeply, rubbing his shoulders until the pain had subsided a little. His whole body ached from the shame of his defeat, and would do so for many days still, no thanks to this blasted weather. But what was done had been done. It would not do to dwell, not now – even he could see that pursuing the Black Prince's favourite would be the worst move he could make. Best to gather his resources and leave as soon as possible. Only a few weeks till the armour was finished, and he could go home; hopefully with a new blacksmith.

Part of him was still amazed that she'd agreed to his offer at all. He'd been half expecting his skull caved in, but she had been smart – for a peasant – and seen that it was her only choice. After all, what could that Thatcher possibly hope to give her? He had no money to his name, no foresight to his plans. He had no home, no land, no claim. He'd be miserable in a few months, lying dead in a ditch somewhere. Now _that_ was a pleasant thought...

_And yet he is content. He is glad with his lot in life, and you, Adhemar, you never will be._

Resentment twisted in his stomach. Choking down a snarl, he ground his fist into the stone. Years of effort lost in a single moment. Wasted. The crowd that once cried his name to the heavens had fallen silent, and all he had worked for was gone. He might've stayed there forever, drowning in hate, were it not for the almost inaudible '_tap-tap-ping tap-tap-ping_' of a blacksmith hard at work. It was strange to hear one working so late in the night, even more so as the tournament was over now. The scotswoman then, working on his comission.

Without truly knowing why, he followed the sounds until he came to the market. The light of the forge illuminated her stand; a single point of warmth in the freezing rain. Cold, wet and miserable, he headed for the cheery glow.

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><p>The din masked the sound of his approach, and for a few moments he was able to watch her work unobserved. She was shaping a small piece of metal, hammering it into what was presumably the beginnings of a gorget. As she moved it back into the fire, she glanced up and saw him.<p>

"You're a wee early, Adhemar. I told you it wouldn't be done for weeks."

"I'm curious," he replied, and that was that.

With a shrug she grabbed a smaller, rounded hammer and started gently tapping at the metal with all the delicacy of a sculptor, coaxing it into its final shape. For a long time, the only sound in the room was the crackle of the fire and the signature _'tap-tap-ping'_ of the hammer bouncing on the iron. The edges were carefully rolled over, and eventually she gave a nod of satisfaction and plunged it into the water. Once it was put to the side, she straightened up and gave him a appraising look.

"Your hand's hurt. Been terrifying the masses?"

He glanced down, slightly startled to see that his knuckles were indeed scabbed and covered in blood. So engrossed in her work, he'd completely forgotten about his earlier outburst, though now the sting had come back in full. Rolling her eyes, she rummaged about in a crate tucked under the table and handed him a roll of cloth and what could only be described as a pot of green goop. "Clean yourself up, and rub that on it. Reeks to high heaven, but it'll heal up nicely."

Puzzled, he did as instructed as she turned back to her work, sketching out the pattern for the shoulder plates. "Why are you helping me?" he asked finally.

"I'm not. That'll be thruppence."

He froze, and then with a deep sigh flicked three small coins onto the table. He contemplated leaving, but the rain was still falling hard and fast, and despite himself he was enjoying the heat from the fire – his backache had subsided somewhat from the warmth, and though he'd never admit it to anyone, least of all himself, he was... glad for the company. To a man that had just lost everything, it was comforting to be near someone that tolerated him, _anyone_; even if that someone was a peasant woman that despised him and all he embodied.

And so he stayed, leaning against the beam - just out of the circle of light but close enough to feel the heat - and watched her.


	3. Chapter Three: The Proposition

Looking back, I probably should've merged chapters one and two together, but it's a bit late for that now. Originally this was meant to be read as a whole, I just thought it'd be less WALLO'TEXTy if I split it into chapters XD Live n' learn, I say.

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><p>~<strong><em>The Proposition<em>**~

The next night the rain was even harsher than before, and once again he found himself at the farrier's stall, quite unsure of how he had even arrived there to begin with. He'd certainly not planned to be out this late at night – he'd been searching for hours to find a replacement for the horse he'd lost in the tournament – _damn you, Thatcher – _and somehow ended up caught in the rain with nowhere to go, and the horrible sensation that he was lost. The streets were so different to his hometown's, all the buildings cramped together in a confusing sprawl – streets that had a myriad of avenues and all of them terminating in a dead end, roads that led nowhere except somehow back on themselves. It was near impossible to get anywhere. All he could do was wander and hope for a sign or some kind of landmark. Should have sent a servant. Dear _god_, why didn't he send a servant? He shouldn't be lowering himself to such tasks, meandering through the streets and bargaining like some sort of commoner.

But what had been done was done, and eventually he'd managed to find his way back to the marketplace... back to her. He watched her as she worked, fascinated at the way such thin arms could even lift her tools, never mind beat the metal with the necessary force. The ring of each strike chimed pure and strong, reverberating in his mind. It was oddly pleasant. The fury he felt at the thought of Thatcher vanished here in the little stall, and he found himself relaxing somewhat. After a while, the heat combined with the rhythmic tapping sent him into a trance-like state, fogging his mind, and he blamed what happened next entirely on that.

"Tell me about your husband."

To her credit, the hammer never once skipped a beat. "What?"

"The only way you'd ever be doing this is if you inherited the trade – most likely a husband considering your age, now dead. So, tell me about him."

"Don't see why I should. You're paying me to work, not chat."

He stared at her incredulously. No one had ever denied him anything before, yet here was a peasant, a _woman_ of all things, refusing him outright. Tiredness sapped his indignation, and where before he would have punished her, he merely scowled. Had his defeat truly humbled him so? They remained in silence a while after; the kind of uneasy, heavy silence ruled by unspoken insults. The fire had lost its warmth, and his back began to ache again.

"Alright." He reached into his pocket and flicked a coin onto the workbench. Money loosened any tongue, and he found himself craving something other than hate directed at him. "A shilling for every question. _Now_, tell me about him."

She paused, frowning first at the coin, and then him, and suddenly broke into a grin. "Spend your coin where you will, m'lord, but that's not a question."

The Count sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. What was he doing, lowering himself to actually talking to a common farrier? It had to be the heat. Had to be. "Fine," he grated out. "What was your husband like?"

"Better." The grin turned wistful, and she gazed into the furnace. "He was a good man. A loving man. Not," she added, casting a sidelong glance at him, "that you'd understand anything about that."

His eyes narrowed, and he stepped closer towards her. "That had better not be insolence I heard, _farrier._"

Unperturbed, she blew the hair from her face and turned back to her work. "Of course not, _my lord._"

A smile crept unbidden across his face. She was wildly different from the primped and pampered ladies of court - not even Jocelyn would have answered him back like that. The women he was used to had less personality than wet parchment, unaccustomed to anything more strenuous than lifting a goblet. But this woman, this farrier possessed a spirit as hot as the fire of her forge, and most likely muscles stronger than most of his men. The thought of such strength held in her slender frame was oddly exhilarating and he found himself wanting to experience more of it. More of her.

Realising that he was still grinning like a buffoon, he cleared his throat and tossed another shilling on the table. "How did you fall in with Thatcher's lot?"

She shrugged. "Seemed a nice lad, willing enough to give me a chance when no one else would. Near'n had no choice."

He asked no other questions that night, and she said nothing when he returned the next night, merely instructing him on how to work the bellows – _you might be an arrogant prick, but you've a strong pair of arms – _and bit by bit, something between them began to grow. As the nights passed, he began asking her about her life in Scotland, where she had travelled, the things she had made, and she would occasionally ask questions of her own, returning a coin for every tidbit he revealed. He began to look forward to the evenings, rushing through his duties for the day, whiling away the hours until he could return. He never once took the same path twice, and he almost convinced himself that every visit was unintentional; though the eager way his feet rushed him to her stall suggested otherwise.


	4. Chapter Four: Desperate Times

The last of the short chapters - after this they get a wee bit meatier. If you were wondering whatever would possess Kate to leave her friends so easily, then hopefully this will clear it up a bit. I feel the need to reiterate; feedback of any sort is appreciated. I won't be silly enough to threaten to stop posting, but some kind of motivation or encouragement would be nice *hint hint*

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><p>~<em><strong>Desperate Times<strong>_~

It had been two weeks after that first encounter, and Kate was packing up her things for the night, Adhemar already gone. She had no idea why the man kept showing up, and a part of her wondered if he had some kind of ulterior motive... and then berated herself for ever thinking such a terrible thing, which was odd in itself. She wasn't sure what had happened, but somewhere down the line her views towards him had eased up a bit. It was probably just because she was lonely, she reasoned. Forging was hard and unforgiving work, and it was nice to have some company. None of her friends dared bother her when she was working, and with good reason; most of the time, she'd tolerate them for only a few minutes before Wat said something and got into yet another scrap with Geoff, which was all well and good except for the fact that more often than not they ended up fighting far too close to the fire for her liking.

It was strange. Now Will had won the tournament and Jocelyn's hand, it seemed like their ragtag group was beginning to flounder. Without him, there was only her and Roland to moderate the fights, and without a goal to work towards everyone seemed a little lost. Even the bickering had somehow lost its spark, as if they were only doing it because it was what they always had done. Times were moving on it seemed, and it wouldn't be long before they left for the next tournament or broke up to find work elsewhere.

Shaking away the melancholy thoughts, she scooped up the heap of coins that had accumulated from the night's conversation, and headed back to her tent. Lost in thought, she suddenly found herself face-first in someone's chest. "Sorry about tha-" She paused, and then peered into the darkness. "Geoff?"

He bowed. "The one and the same. And what have you been up to of late, my dear Kate?"

"Commission came in – I've been working nonstop trying to get it done."

"Mmh, about that. I've been hearing a rumour that a certain evil Count has been spotted around your stall these past few nights. I don't suppose you know anything about that, do you?"

"None of your business, Geoff."

"Of course it's my business. I'm your _friend_, Kate. We all are." He sighed, raking a hand through his hair. "Look, if he's threatening you, we can find a way to -" At her incredulous look, he stopped, confusion clouding his features. "He...he's not, is he."

She looked away. "No. He's not."

"What's going on?"

"He's made me an offer," she whispered, still unable to look him in the eye. "I'm to accompany him back to France as his armourer, once I'm done here."

Geoff stared at her, disbelief plain on his face. "You've accepted."

"Yes."

They stood in silence, the atmosphere heavy and tense. She wanted to explain it to him, to make him understand, but what could she say? She was betraying them, she knew it in her soul. Nothing could make it better. He paced back and forth, agitated, hands clenching and unclenching at his side. Finally, he whirled round, angry and bewildered. "Kate," he ground out between clenched teeth, "need I remind you that man is most likely the devil incarnate?"

"He's not that bad."

"Not that bad? Not that... for God's sake, woman, he almost killed Will! How can you side with him, knowing what a monster he is?"

"Because I don't have a choice!" He fell silent mid-rant, her shout ringing in his ears. Broken, torn, she barrelled on, her voice strained and desperate. "I can't afford to live like this, surely you understand that. The dream is over, Will's won, there's _nothing_ left for us! What am I meant to do, just wait for the next tournament to come around, relying on his winnings for food and shelter? Horseshoes don't make nearly enough to live off, and I'm not likely to get any other trade because of this damned body I'm stuck with. Adhemar's giving me a way out. He's given me _money_, Geoff, enough to retire on, and the promise of steady work. It's the only chance I've got."

"But you've managed so far, haven't you?"

"Not well enough, and not with my own work. Most of my money comes from my husband's wares, not mine. I've been living off what little inheritance I was given – I barely had enough left to buy the iron for Will's armour." Angry, bitter tears welled up in her throat. It filled her with shame, picking away at her husband's money like some carrion bird at a carcass. A vulture. A thief.

Geoff's gaze fell to his boots, subdued. "I'm sorry," he began softly, "I had no -"

"I don't need pity, Geoff, I need to survive. Adhemar's the only way I can." She offered him a smile. "Besides, he really isn't all that bad, once you get to know him. It was a mistake. A terrible one with dire consequences, but a mistake nonetheless, and he's paid for it."

He frowned. "That's awfully understanding of you. Even the priests wouldn't absolve him that easily."

"Yeah, well, the money helped."

They laughed, the feel of camaraderie soothing the sting of their argument. For what was little was left of the night they talked, and though the weariness was heavy in her bones she prayed the moment of peace would never end. She would miss him, all of them, when she was gone.


	5. Chapter Five: Of Songs and Secrets

Aaaaand back to Adhemar. I fondly call this 'Obligatory Dance Scene'. The only reason for this chapter is to touch on an interesting trait he has - in the deleted scenes, it's mentioned that he's tone deaf. The implications of this were fascinating, and yet for some reason I chose to eschew exploring it for cheesy dancing. Wat. Still, it makes for easy bonding times, I guess...

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><p>~<strong><em>Of Songs and Secrets<em>**~

He was leaning against what he had come to think of as his usual post, relaxed, his eyes closed. For all its noise and dirt, he was at peace here in this tiny stall, away from the accusatory eyes of the people that had once worshipped him. Not even the resentment could find him here; it melted away in the intense heat of the fire, and the rhythmic, ever constant _tap-tap-ping_ cleared his mind. Unconsciously, his foot began to tap in time to the strikes. Abruptly the bell-like chimes stopped. His eyes flew open, and he saw her watching him with a crooked grin.

"If I didn't know better, it looks like you're listening to music."

He shrugged. "Perhaps I am. I wouldn't know."

She gave him a puzzled look, then returned to her work. It was a full half hour before she stopped again, tossing a silver coin onto the table. "Why?" Confused, he gave her a blank stare, and she rolled her eyes. "Why wouldn't you know?"

It took him a moment to remember the conversation, and he gave an embarrassed cough. "No reason." He didn't want to face the look of pity, not here, not in this haven.

"Liar. I've paid you, so 'fess up."

It never failed to amaze him how blunt her mannerisms were, and he couldn't help but compare her again to the painted, fragile ladies of court. They would have danced around the subject, extracting an answer from him through manipulation and seduction. She merely went for the most direct route, caring not a whit whether she insulted him, and the effect was not unlike that of her hammer striking metal.

Reluctantly, he answered her.

"I have no ear for music, so I have nothing to compare it to. I was born, my physician says, unable to hear it as you might. Where one hears the most beautiful of symphonies, I hear only discord. A choir of angels sent down by God Himself would, to me, be no more than the wail of cats in heat."

There it was. That same expression that had haunted him in childhood. _Poor child,_ they had all said, _to suffer so._

_Poor child indeed,_ he thought resentfully.

He'd slipped whisper-quiet onto the landing one night in his youth, heading for his parents' room after a particularly bad nightmare. He'd been just about to raise his tiny fist to knock on the door when he heard them talking. Always curious - perhaps more than a boy of his station ought, he'd listened in. Countless times now he'd wished he hadn't._ Poor boy, _his mother had murmured to his father, _to be so disconnected from humanity._ The man had said nothing, and it was all to easy for little Adhemar to imagine the stern, proud features of the Count as he watched his wife's anguish impassively. _I hear them whispering, husband, _she continued, her voice giving way to hysteria with every word,_ rumours that he is a demon child! A changeling! They think him a monster, and I... _A pause. A sob._ The priests say that music is the language of the soul, and that he cannot...I cannot... _He'd fled before he could hear it, and the next day she never once looked at him, and would not do so again for many weeks. When she finally did, all he could see was helpless pity.

And now the exact same look was in her eyes. _Poor man._ The bitterness was almost too much to bear, but he would not lose the only pleasant contact he had left to another stupid mistake, and so he quelled the anger, forcing a smile. "But yes, I find the rhythm of your work pleasing. Perhaps it is as music is to people."

Possibly sensing his unease, she turned back to her work. "You're a weird one, Adhemar. I expect dancing isn't easy then."

"Nigh impossible."

"No wonder Jocelyn didn't take a fancy to you. She had Will prancing like a pony before she went anywhere near him."

He arched an eyebrow at her obvious ire. "You sound rather venomous."

"She almost killed him. Asked him to prove his love for her by popping his shoulder out of joint."

"It's a wonder you stand me at all, then," he murmured. Guilt still shadowed his steps; how could it not? Even his own men shunned him for his crime. They were cordial enough to his face – of course they were, they wouldn't dare otherwise – but he heard the whispers when his back was turned, caught the foul glances thrown his way. He had sinned, and now the world had turned against him. Once again it was the hammer that brought him from the abyss of his thoughts, accompanied this time with an offer.

"I could teach you."

It was so out of the blue that he couldn't even begin to think of a reply, and left him looking quizzically at her.

"Dancing. I could teach you."

"And cost me more money?" Some secret part of him longed to say yes, but the shame of being at her mercy was too great, and so he laughed scornfully. "That won't be necessary."

"Sure? It's a valuable skill – just look at Will. Besides, how else are you going to impress the ladies? Your charming personality?"

Again that flippancy, that blatant disregard for flattery, so unlike anything he had experienced before. He scowled, more to hide his elation than out of any real offence. "I'll have you know that I've no problem with women."

She rolled her eyes. "I don't mean bedding them, and you know it. Getting a woman might be easy for a lad like you, but keeping her's the trick."

"Not something I need to worry about," he said somewhat despondently. "She'll have no choice, and likely neither will I."

It was a simple statement of fact, yet in an instance the reality of their situation struck, and all sense of familiarity was gone. The smile fell from her eyes, and when she turned away she took the warmth with her, leaving him cold and alone. It had been almost too easy to forget the differences in their status, and he found himself missing the easygoing atmosphere it had brought. The ache in his back and shoulders, forgotten during their conversation, returned in full. Even the rhythm of the hammer had lost its comfort.

Mentally backhanding himself with every word for being such a fool, he spoke up. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to learn." What little sense he had left added, "as long as it doesn't cost me a fortune."

Her smile was almost worth the humiliation. Almost.

"No more than a question or two."

"One would presume you would have run out by now."

"'Course not. You never truly know someone, no matter how many times you ask. As long as they live, there'll be questions. Now, c'mere." Wiping her hands on her apron, she grabbed his arm and dragged him out of her stall. By now most of the shops had packed up and left, leaving behind the huge, almost completely deserted market square. "Not much light, but plenty of space, so it'll have to do. Now, hold my hand like this – not too tight! - and do as I say. And a-whun two three..."

Swept away by the unrelenting tide of enthusiasm, there was little he could do but go along with her, slightly bewildered and rather bemused. If anyone else had been so forward with him he... to be honest, he didn't know what he would have done. So instead he let himself enjoy the feeling of her hand in his – rough and calloused, so incongruous compared to the slenderness of her fingers – and focused on the lesson.

And, to his shame, Adhemar needed every ounce of concentration he had. He blundered into her more times than he cared to admit. Each time it happened he grew more frustrated, causing him to lose count and make more mistakes. Somehow she managed to keep up her encouraging tone, and he winced for her every time he stepped on her feet. When they finally finished the set, he stormed away, scowling.

"This is entirely undignified," he hissed, fury in every syllable.

The blacksmith kept her distance as he paced back and forth, muttering foully to himself. Just as she was about to return to her stall he marched up to her, determination blazing in his eyes.

"Again."

Count Adhemar of Anjou did not simply give up.

So they danced, long into the night and far past the time when ordinary people were asleep and not constantly tripping up over each other. The fire from the forge burned itself out, yet still they danced. Their feet ached and their limbs grew heavy from weariness, but they pushed on resolutely, refusing to admit defeat. Standing became a task of Herculean proportions, never mind dancing, yet somehow they forced their bodies to move. Finally, at last, as the moon slipped from the sky and the inky black of the night gave way to the soft pink of the dawn, they managed to complete the set without fail.

They stood there, exhausted, grinning unabashedly at each other.

_Thank_ _god_, they thought.


	6. Chapter Six: Saying Goodbye

Before someone mentioned it in a review (see, they do help!), I hadn't even thought to include Will's reaction. How sucky am I? XD Anyways, this is...wow. Already the ending. Well, sort of. If, after this, you think 'yeah, cool, I'll have that,' then that's totally up to you. There's an epilogue of sorts following for those that want it, but good grief. I knew it was a short story, just didn't realise how short XD

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><p>~<strong><em>Saying Goodbye<em>**~

Kate yawned massively, setting down the tools for a moment to rub the sleep from her eyes. She was finding it difficult to focus on anything; whatever had kept her going through the night had left her, and she was on the verge of collapse. _Still_, she thought,_ it had been worth it_. The look of sheer joy on Adhemar's face alone was payment enough. They had stayed together for a while after that, chattering animatedly for a good hour or so, before he had insisted on helping her close up shop and walking her to the campsite. There had been a moment, standing before her tent, when he had leaned in, almost as if to...

But that was silly. She was probably imagining it – she'd barely been able to stand, after all. Yes, that was it. No more than a delusion. Even so, it bought a smile unnoticed to her lips, and she let herself dream. At least until the leather punch rolled off the table and onto her still aching feet, at which point her practical side took over and she waved it all away to focus on her work.

She worked long and hard, fitting the armour together like a puzzle. It was a wonderful feeling to be nearing the end, and the excitement was enough to overcome her initial tiredness, spurring her beyond the point of collapse. It was long past nightfall when with a final flourish she etched her mark on the breastplate.

At last, after over a month's worth of solid labour, the suit of armour was complete. She ran her hands lovingly over the surface, fingers tracing the contours of the metal. It was her pride and joy, and it would be difficult to give it away, though at least it wouldn't go to some idiot that would let it rust and fall apart. Adhemar would look after it, she knew, especially with her there to keep a hawk's eye on its well-being.

With that thought came the realisation that it was almost midnight and he had yet to appear. The night wore on, yet still she waited for him, even as the cold beginnings of dread slipped their way into her heart.

He didn't show up that night, nor the next.

She tried to pretend it didn't hurt as much as it did, instead bottling away her insecurities to see her friends off. They were on their way to Jocelyn's father, to ask his blessing in her and Will's marriage – _won't you come with us, Kate?_ - and realising the very real possibility she might not see them again, she cherished every moment she could. As they boarded the boat, Will lingered behind, steering her off to one side.

He paced back and forth, obviously agitated. Every now and again he'd pause, turn as if to say something, and then give up and start pacing again. Finally, thinking the boat wouldn't wait forever, she asked him what was wrong.

That stopped him dead in his tracks. "I'm not going to try and understand why you're doing this, Kate. Why you're leaving with..._him_." He spat out the last word with no small amount of venom, and she winced. Geoff had promised her he wouldn't let anyone know until they were long gone, but apparently that had fallen through. Bloody artists - they had no sticking power. "Geoff told me but I...I don't...bloody hell Kate!" He slammed his fist against the pier's railing, cursing foully to himself. "We could've helped you! I could have helped! You don't need his money, we'd find a way, we'd..." he trailed off again as she arched her brow, and slumped. "Alright, fine, I'm skint." The calm only lasted a few seconds, before he threw his hands up in the air. "But _Adhemar?_!"

"It's not like I've actually accepted his offer, Will," she reminded him. "I might just take the money and go back to Scotland. Lord knows he's given me more than enough to make the trip."

"But he's such a-"

"I _know_."

"What if he-"

Holding him lightly by the shoulders, she smiled in a way she hoped was confident. "I'm a big girl, Will. I can look after myself, and I've been doing so for years before you came along. I'll be fine." He stared, expression entirely unconvinced. "_Promise_." Reaching down, she picked up a bundle of cloth by her feet and pressed it into his arms. At his questioning glance, she smiled again. "A wedding present, if I miss the real thing." As the package exchanged hands, the rags slipped for a moment to reveal the shine of metal. "I managed to find some time between work to fix it. It's the least I could do for how good you've been to me."

Stunned into silence, it was several moments before he finally moved forwards, hugging her tightly, all anger forgotten in the face of such love. "I hope things work out for you, Kate," he mumbled into her hair.

Not trusting herself to say anything, she merely held him all the tighter.

* * *

><p>When she finally returned to her stall, she found Adhemar already waiting for her, expression open and relaxed – so very different to the permanent sneer he used to wear. She understood now why he had been so popular despite his treatment towards their group. He was handsome (she allowed herself to think it now) but it was more than that; he exuded an easy confidence that somehow drew people to him. She hadn't noticed it before when he'd merely been the enemy, someone to hate for what he'd done to Will. But now...<p>

"And where were you? I finished the armour two nights ago."

"My apologies. I had some...personal business to attend to."

"Nothing too terrible, I hope."

"No, not at all. It's my mother." He pulled a face, adding with no small amount of derision, "asking again why she's yet to see any grandchildren. She's been hounding me all year."

"Me mam wasn't much different, truth be told. She'll ease up eventually, given time."

He snorted. "I doubt that. She's worried I'll have no one to inherit my title once I'm gone. Apparently she expects me to die any day now." Rolling his eyes, he shrugged. "Still, nothing of importance. You say the armour's finished now?"

Kate nodded, gesturing to the neat pile on the workbench. "Try it on. The straps might need adjusting, but we'll see how it goes."

She helped him into it, her touches light and professional against his skin, yet lingering a moment longer than needed as she fastened the buckles at his side. He gave it a few experimental strides, marvelling at how light it was. "This is extraordinary. It must be half the weight of my old suit...and yet you say it is still as strong?"

"Aye, if not stronger."

Eying her workmanship, she allowed herself a moment of pride. It was good armour, probably her best work in all, and it fitted him almost exactly; all she needed was to add a few more notches in the straps. He slipped off the necessary parts with ease – yet another improvement, considering how long it usually took to get out of the standard suits. As she punched in the extra holes, he tossed yet another coin on the table.

"What is your name?"

Her head snapped up in shock to find him looking almost sheepish, fiddling with the gauntlet. "What?"

"It has occurred to me that after a month knowing you, I still don't know your name. It would be insulting to go without knowing any longer."

Aware of how embarrassed he was, she resisted the urge to burst out laughing, though she couldn't stop the little grin that made its way to her lips. "It's Kate." The awkwardness growing, she decided to be merciful and gave a cough, gesturing to the greaves in her hand. "Shall we try these?"

To demonstrate the armour's strength, she tapped, punched, and swung her sledgehammer at his chest, noting with satisfaction how it absorbed every blow. The look of apprehension as she'd approached him with the massive hammer had been priceless, and though it was tempting she managed to restrain herself from teasing him too much. It was a miracle he trusted her enough to take a swing at him at all, and she reflected on how different a situation that would have been only four weeks ago.

He held a coin before her eyes. "I don't suppose I could persuade you to tell me how you discovered this new technique?"

She grinned again. "Trade secret, Adhemar. Tell you that, I'd have to shove you in the fire."

"Threats now?"

"Just wistful thinking, and lucky for you – not even this could save you." She rapped the breastplate playfully with her knuckles. "Now, if that'll be all?" She leaned against the workbench and gestured towards the entrance.

"Not yet." Flicking the coin onto the table, he grinned playfully. "You did not answer, so I get one more question. We must play by the rules."

"Since when have you cared about rules?"

She'd only meant it in jest, but she regretted it the moment she said it, seeing the way his face fell. The stoop he'd acquired from his injuries returned, and he seemed a little smaller, a little meeker. Shrugging with some difficulty, he smiled at her in a way that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm beginning to learn the error of my ways."

With a sigh, she pushed back the hair from her face. "I'm sorry. What did you want to ask?"

As soon as the words left her mouth he was in front of her, near silent despite the armour. He reached out, trailing his fingertips lightly over her shoulders, tangling them in her hair. Her breath caught in her throat.

"I... have grown fond of you, this past month. I'd planned to only keep you as my blacksmith, but now I..." His eyes remained fixated on a point past his shoulder, unable to meet her eyes. "I think of you, every night, dreaming of your face, your hands, the lilt of your voice. So different to what I know, what I am able to predict, and it is intoxicating. It is like a craving, so strong it dulls the senses till it is only when I am here, with you, that I truly feel alive at all. There are only two ways to remedy it, and the first - to remove myself completely from you - is too painful to bear, leaving me only one choice. I would have you as my own, to live with me. Stay with me. _Love_ me." Resting his forehead against hers, he finally met her gaze, soul laid bare before her.

"Will you come with me, Kate?" he whispered, and though his voice was as calm as ever she could hear the faint tremor of nervousness beneath the surface. This, she realised, was no longer the game they had been playing. There was no teasing, no coy glances, only pure and brutal honesty. She had him. All she had to do was lean forward and...

She tore herself away, heart crying out at the loss of contact.

"I can't."

For the briefest of moments she watched his heart break, and then it was gone, replaced by the cool, impassioned mask of a man she had almost forgotten. "You can't," he repeated flatly. The sudden change was like a knife in her heart.

"I can't. You can't. We don't have a future." She almost falls over her words in her desperation to get them out. "A woman of my standing could only ever be a mistress. You'd gain nothing; no land, no money, no status, and neither would I. The pressure on you to marry would never stop." He opened his mouth as if to speak, to prove her wrong, but she couldn't stop now or she'd never be able to. "I can't have any children, Adhemar." The truth chokes her, but she spits it out bitterly, remembering the look on her husband's face when the physician had visited one spring morning. "I'm barren, and even if I weren't, no child would ever be recognised as legitimate. You'd have no heir, and it would be as if I was never there. Eventually you'd have to marry, and by then I'd leave anyway."

"I see." His expression remained unreadable, and that was perhaps the worst thing of all.

She hated being so rational, and despised herself for using it as an excuse. It had been thrilling when it had just been a game, but the real prospect of being happy again paralysed her with fear. The memory of her husband, the guilt at having so soon fallen in lo... no. It was too much. "I'm sorry."

He acted as though he hadn't heard her. "Thank you for the armour." His voice was clipped, polite, cold and distant as moonlight. "Do what you will with your payment. Goodbye."

And then he was gone.

The awful weight of what she'd done crashed down upon her, and falling to her knees she let herself cry; great, heaving sobs that tore her lungs and ripped her throat.

When she was done, she picked herself up, wiped her face, and got on with her work.


	7. Chapter Seven: The Price of Love

And finally, an ending. An actual ending, for real. Thanks to everyone that's stuck around long enough to get this far, it really is appreciated. That said, I rather like getting feedback, so a nice review letting me know what needs improving and what you liked would be nice. Also, I'm sorry everything is so rushed - when I was writing it the pacing didn't seem so weird, but whilst posting I've become acutely aware of how quickly everything happens. It's less than ideal, and I should've spent more time on it, really. But it's a lesson learned, so it's not all bad. Anyways, incoherent ramblings aside, I present to you the final chapter in three, two, one...

* * *

><p>~<strong><em>The Price of Love<em>**~

Four years on and Kate was back in the tournament circuit – more for want of something to do than any real need for trade. Adhemar's money seemed to never end, but she tired all to quickly of not working, and so for a while had set up shop in Scotland, living with her niece. As she'd expected, she barely had any work beyond shoeing horses, but anything was better than sitting around doing nothing all day.

She didn't allow herself to think of Adhemar beyond the odd thanks, but he came to her in her dreams regardless, as did her friends. She hadn't seen them since the day they'd set out, and pride had stopped her seeking them out again. She had been so confident, so sure of herself. To go back now would be humiliating. Of course they would accept her again – of that she had no doubt – but therein lay the problem. Who was she to receive such kindness, such unconditional friendship, when she had so readily abandoned them at the first opportunity?

So she remained in Scotland, catching snippets of gossip from customers as she worked. Tales of a great writer, currently penning his masterpiece. Rumours of a peasant knight and his ragtag band – whilst the Black Prince had given him a title, it seemed Will was still facing animosity from the upper classes, though his marriage to Lady Jocelyn hushed them somewhat. His peasant supporters continued to grow however, charmed by the idea of one of their own rising up to glory.

She heard nothing of Adhemar.

Though she loved Scotland and always would, she found herself struck by wanderlust, feet itching to simply walk out of the cottage and never stop. On a whim she packed her things and took them with her to Edinburgh when the next job called, and as soon as someone mentioned the tournament circuit she bought a horse and cart and never looked back, stopping only to write a letter to her niece explaining that the cottage was now hers.

It took ten days to catch up with the circuit, and once there it was like she had never left. So easily did she fall back into the routine, relishing in living with everything already packed, waiting for that moment when it was time to move on. Word had since gotten round that it had been a Scotswoman that had forged Sir William's armour, and she soon found herself accepting repairs and replacements. They still didn't trust her with a full suit, of course, but it was a start. The sudden influx of work meant she could save what remained of Adhemar's commission, and money put by never failed to ease the mind. Her stall became a showroom of sorts as everyone crowded round to watch a woman at work, and she suspected that most of her customers had come to her more for the novelty than anything else, but money was money, even if it meant being gawped at all day.

When she caught sight of the three phoenixes that made up Will's crest, she resisted the urge to bolt, the longing to see her friends overcoming her pride and self-loathing. It didn't take long for them to find her – she'd become well-known among the participants, and she soon found herself seeing faces she'd almost forgotten in the four years of their separation. There was stunned silence, and then an eruption of noise as everyone spoke at once, clamouring to be heard over each other. It was enough to put her off-balance, and as they surged forward to envelop her in their embrace she was knocked from her feet, bringing everyone down with her. Even Geoff was there, smiling fondly. She wanted to cry.

The next three days were a blur of alcohol and questions – _Where have you been? How did things go with that scumbag? How many grapes can Watt fit in his mouth? Why didn't you come find us? Honestly Will, what would Jocelyn think if she caught you? _- and she realised bit by bit that she had been a fool to avoid them this long.

For a while, things were wonderful. She chose to stay with the circuit, meeting up with her friends when work permitted, and travelled all over Europe. As the end of the tournament season loomed near, she found herself wondering where she'd go next. Naturally they'd offered to take her with them, but she wasn't ready for that, not yet. She could take care of herself – thanks to her savings, she had more than enough to get her through winter even if there was no work. Perhaps she'd travel?

The peace couldn't last forever, though, and when Will broke his arm, Jocelyn insisted that he drop out. Kate was amazed that anything could separate that boy from his lance, but Jocelyn had a core of steel beneath her courtly manners, and would not be argued with.

And so it was alone she travelled to France. She ignored the way her heart ached when she saw the coat of arms that announced Adhemar's participation. The temptation to flee was almost overwhelming, but she convinced herself that she wouldn't be able to afford backing out just yet, and so she held her ground.

But he never showed.

For the month she was there she saw neither hide nor hair of him, only hearing of his progress through the ranks from her customers. Won every match, of course, but the news was tinged with surprise – it was the first time he'd jousted since his defeat in London four years ago. Not only that, but he was no longer wearing his customary black armour, but something new and ridiculously lightweight, with the most strangest symbol engraved on the breastplate; like the flick of an artist's brush.

She felt pride in a job well done – the armour was turning blows that would have obliterated the normal suits – but also more than a little hurt. She knew that her name had been tossed about, after all how often does one see a woman wielding hammers bigger than a grown man's fist? Yet still he remained absent. Then again, she _had_ refused him. Perhaps after their last encounter, that had been the end of that in his mind, and he'd gone off to find another woman to chase. Even as she thought it she felt disgusted with herself. What right did she have to him, she who had turned him away when he had been at his most vulnerable? She remembered how open and unguarded he had been, and the wound was as fresh as ever.

* * *

><p>At the end of the week, the winners were announced – Adhemar, of course, among them – and she resigned herself to never seeing him again. She prodded absently at the coal, contemplating what to do over winter and completely failing to hear the footsteps of someone approaching.<p>

"You know, I have heard of the most remarkable thing. A woman blacksmith, of all things."

She whirled round in shock, eyes wide and heart in her throat. He seemed older, more tired, but just as striking as before. In his hands he held a large bundle of oiled cloth. Smiled crookedly, he leant against the workbench, gazing into the red glow of the embers.

"What is strange, however, is that I paid her a king's ransom for my armour, and yet here she is, working in a stall that, if I'm not mistaken, is even smaller than the one she had before." He raised his eyes to meet hers, and at that moment her heart stopped. "Why is that, do you think?"

It was all she could do to stay breathing, never mind talk, but somehow she managed to put together a reply. "Got bored."

"Of course. Perhaps fortune smiles upon me at last, then." Placing the bundle on the table, he unwraps it to reveal his breastplate, pristine but for the large dent. "I've discovered," he said wryly, "that whilst custom armour may indeed be superior, often it is only the maker that knows how to repair it. You blacksmiths are an awfully secretive lot."

Grasping at the chance to have something else focus on, she turns her attention to the plate, inspecting the dent. "You've only been in the tournament for a month, how on earth did you manage to do this?"

"Well, I was hit, obviously. Multiple times in fact."

"With what, an elephant?"

He rolled his eyes, a tiny bit of his younger self showing through. "I was not idle for four years. There were wars, disputes, raids, training. Contrary to popular opinion, being a Count involves more than riding horses and sleeping on piles of money. Shocking, I know."

Kate looked at the armour, and then at him. "Do you have payment on you?"

"Of course."

She chewed on her lip, thinking. Surely a single day in his company wouldn't hurt. They were friends, after all – or as close to friends as could be in such a strange situation – and if she was honest with herself, she had missed him. "Do you remember how to work the bellows?"

* * *

><p>Unable to find the words to say, she focused instead on the work, hammer bouncing off the metal with the ever familiar <em>tap-tap-ping<em>. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Adhemar close his eyes and drum his fingers against his leg in time with the rhythm, and found herself smiling.

As she returned the metal to the heat, he placed a shilling on the table. "What have you been doing these past four years?" At her stare, he shook his head despairingly. "Surely you can't have forgotten the rules."

She hesitated, and then shrugged. What harm could it do to answer? And so she told him of her shop in Scotland, her reunion with her friends, and her lack of plans over the winter. To her amazement he only frowned slightly when she mentioned Will, though he did seem rather amused by Jocelyn's refusal to let him compete.

It was a quick job that seemed even faster with his company, and soon Kate was quenching the breastplate to restrengthen it, before tossing it on the table to let it cool. Wiping the sweat from her brow, she eyed him up, sliding the coin over to him. "So, what about you? If you've not been idle, prove it."

He didn't answer at first, and instead played with the coin, rolling it back and forth. "After I left, I came home. By an amazing stroke of coincidence that I'm sure my mother had nothing to do with, I was just in time for a ball she had apparently been planning for weeks. It wasn't a complete disaster – I was able to dance, thanks to you, and met Lady Adele, whom I discovered I was to marry. Soon after the wedding we had a son, and some time after that, she died giving birth to a second child. The child, my daughter, survived." His eyes were downcast, shoulders slumped. She wanted to say something, to comfort him, and to both their surprise she reached across, her hand resting over his. He stared at it for the longest time before continuing, voice nigh inaudible. "She was a good woman, a wonderful woman that deserved far better than what I could give. I never truly loved her, and she knew it." A sad little smile creased the corner of his lips, and he looked up at her. "She used to tease me about it, trying to figure out who it was that had 'stolen my heart' before she'd even had a chance. In a way, I suppose we were more friends than lovers."

Not knowing what to say – who would? - she squeezed his hand, and he grasped it tightly, pressing it to his cheek. After a while he seemed to compose himself, straightening up and adjusting his sleeves, never once letting go of her hand.

"After that I threw myself into campaigns, hellbent on protecting my land. It seems that having something, or indeed some_one_ to fight for stirs paranoia that misfortune will come and take it away. The armour held up wonderfully, but eventually began to show signs of wear nonetheless. I decided to try and find you, using the tournaments to travel to England in the hopes of stumbling across you. I never imagined you'd be back in the circuit."

"Well, like I said, I got restless. I've lived near'n my whole life working. Quitting now would be unthinkable."

"Perhaps. It seems you've managed to make a name for yourself at any rate."

She shook her head, laughing. "Hardly! They're only interested in me because I'm a novelty. I'm just a dog that's learned to do tricks is all."

"Then they are fools." There was such conviction in his eyes that her heart fluttered, and they sat together in silence, his eyes on her, and hers on their hands, still entwined.

"Kate, four years ago I asked you to come back to Anjou with me. You gave me several very good reasons why you could not, and I have tried to move on." He laughed humourlessly. "However, it seems that by trying to forget you, I also addressed the issue that stood between us – I have married and produced an heir, so my mother can no longer badger me into such things. To take a mistress now would not be an uncommon thing. To remain faithful to her and her alone, to have her raise my children as their mother is unusual, but not unheard of. In some ways, I am now as free as you are to choose my partners, and I assure you my feelings for you have only strengthened over time. And so once again I lay myself at your mercy."

He released her hand and pushed the shilling towards the centre of the table, eyes always on her. "Will you come with me, Kate?"

She stared at him, and for what seemed like a decade they remained like that, the silver coin shining in the firelight between them. A thousand possibilities, a thousand scenarios raced through her mind. She thought of Will, almost killed by this man before her. She thought of Wat, personality as bright and vivid as his hair, of Roland and his soft smile and artist's hands, of Geoff and his intricate web of words. She thought of her husband, loved and lost. She thought of the Count of Anjou, a ruthless man held aloft by his sneering ways and distaste for anything considered beneath him. She thought of Adhemar, befriended four years ago; a man lost in his own shadow, trapped and condemned by the monster he had created in the heat of the moment. She thought of the man before her now, older and wiser, a man of his own creation, no longer at the mercy of his temperament. She thought of herself, of the fear and guilt she had once felt so long ago.

And then she decided that sometimes it was possible to think too much, grabbed the front of his tunic, pulled him towards her, and showed him in no uncertain terms what her answer was.

The shilling fell to the floor, forgotten.


End file.
